


Tell The Gods

by CallMeBombshell



Category: Battlestar Galactica
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-02
Updated: 2009-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There are 800 other first-year cadets at the Academy to choose from; if Brendan Costanza washes out, the Colonial Fleet won't even notice.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell The Gods

Brendan Costanza is pretty well certain he's going to get kicked out of the Academy. He's a decent stick in the cockpit, but he's nowhere near as good as he could be if he really worked at it. And he doesn't like working. Brendan's always liked lazing around, hanging out with his friends and going out for drinks, passing notes instead of doing homework, playing sim games instead of getting a job, sitting around in the sun instead of running around the track. He's a laid-back kind of guy, and even the Colonial Fleet hasn't managed to change that.

He holds some promise, he knows; one of his instructors left a note on an evaluation which read _could be a good pilot, if he ever showed up for practise_ , which seemed to be the general idea. Could be good at manouvers, if he ever spent any time actually working on them. Could be good at the classwork, if he ever showed up to the lectures or was bothered taking notes or doing his homework. Could be a good soldier, if he ever bothered to remember what it means to stand straight and accept that responsibility.

It's that last one that Brendan has the most trouble with; the Cylons are long gone, and the local police on each world can deal with any trouble, and on the rare occasions where a military presence is required in one of the rare inter-colonial squabbles or even-rarer major disturbances, like the bombing on Sagittaron fifteen years before, the Marines were always the ones to deal with it, never the pilots. These days, Brendan thinks, the Fleet's pilots spend more of their time doing ceremonial fly-bys for dozens of holidays and events and ceremonies all across the Colonies than they do practising actual battle manouvers or running recon patrols. It's part of why he joined; the aura of danger and action, without the actual threat of war.

The fact that he's currently thinking about all of this while laying on the grass in the quad, having ditched his poli-sci lecture to watch the upperclassmen do fly-by manouvers, probably isn't doing much to recommend him to the Academy's top brass. Danger or no danger, they're still determined to churn out good soldiers, not waste time on lazy flyboy wannabes like him. There are 800 other first-year cadets at the Academy to choose from; if Brendan Costanza washes out, the Colonial Fleet won't even notice.

A flight of Vipers roars by overhead, and Brendan spares a moment to wish that he had the drive to be better in his classes, in his practises, because damn, it'd be nice to fly like that. As a kid, he liked sportscars and rockets, anything flashy and fast and powerful that'd make a guy look cool just for having an interest in. Vipers put them all to shame.

Another flight takes their run, ripping past, double-wide formation passing right over his head, and Brendan feels the wide grin spread across his face. This is Red Squadron, the highest level of upperclassmen pilots. They're the number ones, the best of the best; most of them will be graduating, getting their commissions at the end of the year. They're the pride and joy of the Academy. They're also the whole reason why he's skipped his lecture to begin with.

Or rather, the reason lies in the two Vipers at the head of the column.

Like just about everyone at the Academy, Brendan's heard about the wonder-team of Starbuck-and-Apollo, the Academy's best pilots, the hotshot gods of the skies. It's hard not to, when Starbuck's temper and Apollo's impeccable manners are just as legendary as their skill in the cockpit. Recounts of their exploits, high-risk stunts and record breaking runs alongside tales of barfights, pranks, and Starbuck's first-name terms with the guards in hack, are all told with a kind of awed bravado and a vague expression of disbelief. It's not that people think they're lying; too many witnesses and verifiable facts (generally put around by a ridiculously tall Raptor ECO called Helo, who, Brendan's noticed, seems to be present 90 percent of the time and yet manages to escape trouble nearly 100 percent of the time).

No, it's that they make it all look so easy, so simple, as though flying and fighting and getting away with their skins intact comes just as naturally to Starbuck and Apollo as breathing. They pull off tricks that would kill other pilots, walk away with bruises from fights that would leave others with broken limbs.

Brendan watches their Vipers soar by, coming around for another run. The Viper on the right tilts just a little, and Brendan's mind says _Starbuck_ , always the initiator, always the sudden explosion to Apollo's steadier tick-ticking bomb. Sure enough, the Viper on the left is tipping sideways as well, just a second later, and Brendan watches as they flip their tops toward each other, cockpits facing, breaking away as one to loop barrel rolls together around the rest of their column. He tilts his head back into the grass to keep them in his sights until they disappear behind the dorms. He can practically hear Starbuck's laughter across the comm channels and he's willing to bet anything that Apollo is grinning like a madman behind the glass of his canopy where no one can see him.

Sighing, Brendan stands and collects his things, heading off down to quad toward his next class. Some days he thinks that maybe if he just pushed harder and actually focused for once, maybe he'd be good enough to fly like Starbuck and Apollo, maybe he could pull off the stunts the rest of his flight only dreams about. At the rate he's been going at, he might barely get to his second year before he's kicked out, and that's if he prays to all the Lords of Kobol, every single one, every day from now until the end of the semester, and Brendan's never been religious. It's not like he really even _wants_ to be a pilot, not the way he suspects Starbucks wants to be, from the ways he's heard she talks about nothing else, or the way Apollo wants it, coming from a military family. Brendan just thought it'd be cool to get to fly.

Taking one last look at the sky where Red Squadron had passed over only minutes before, Brendan sighs again and turns his eyes back down to the earth. It's almost enough to make him really try, and he tells himself that he'll make a better effort to stay on track and do what he's supposed to do. Maybe someday he'll even get to be a decent pilot. Hell, if he works hard enough, maybe someday, fifteen years from now, he'll even get to fly with the wonder-team for some big occasion. Realistically, he knows there's no chance of that happening in this life; but then again, miracles do sometimes happen.

And for now, it's good to daydream in class of flying with the gods.  



End file.
